


A Darkling Plain

by wreckofherheart



Series: hold this rope and i'll pull you in [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to <b>In Bloom</b>.]</p><p>In an attempt to flee from her father's wrath, Angie endures more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> **Important** : Please make sure you have read _Scarlet Cross_ and its sequel _In Bloom_ before continuing. 
> 
> Thank you very much for the wait! The vast majority of you were very keen for the final instalment (?) to this series, so here it is. I hope it exceeds your expectations. This story shall revolve mainly around Angie and Peggy's family, but God knows what else shall happen.
> 
> Please do leave kudos and/or feedback! Updates shall be spontaneous, I'm afraid, due to part-time work and University, but this story shall be prioritised.
> 
> Until next time!

     ‘I’m afraid it’s a little far from the theatre district.’

     ‘I can live with that.’

     Anywhere is a little far, what with Howard’s cottage being located in the high lands of Scotland. There is nothing for miles, except hills, water, greenery and a vast horizon of mountains, the tips covered in either snow or fog. Scotland possesses an atmosphere impossible to discover in America, and it has been some time since Peggy has ever felt so at home.

     The war has deserted them for now. They are not in danger of being attacked by the bombings, and, if anything, this is the safest place one could be. Which works perfectly for Peggy. Safety is a challenge for her, mainly due to her lifestyle and work. However, she is fortunate to have a friend like Howard, even if she’s not too sure if his furniture is as “clean” as it appears.

     Peggy doesn’t even _want_ to imagine where and how Howard has been in this lavish home.

     Despite his wealth and determination to show off said wealth, the cottage he’s given to Peggy and Angie is small. Two bedrooms, a small bathroom on the ground floor, a cosy kitchen, and a back room, which Peggy guesses is the living room. It is snug, well-kept, and hidden. 

     Exactly the type of property she was seeking. 

     Hated fathers and deranged Nazis will not find them here.

     ‘If the occasion calls for it, on the other hand––’ Mister Jarvis says, ‘––the two of you will have an escape route.’ Hitting the floorboard with the heel of his foot, Mister Jarvis hears a hollow _knock_. He crouches down and removes a part of the floorboard. ‘Climb down here, walk through the tunnel Mister Stark created, and you’ll find yourself outside. A decent, if not slightly distasteful, getaway.’

     ‘Quite, Mister Jarvis, but it is very much my intention that such escapes routes will not be of use.’

     ‘Of course, Miss Carter. Might I also add that Mister Stark has left me at your disposal, so to speak. If there is anything the two of you may require, I shall be close by. My wife and I inhabit a home several miles away.’

     ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

     Mister Jarvis smiles, and bows his head out of respect, before turning away and leaving both women alone. Now that they have their privacy, Angie drops her bag and clasps her hands together in excitement.

     ‘This is amazing, Pegs!’ Bouncing in her step, she hurries over to Peggy and pulls at her sleeve, ‘I want us to live here for the rest of our lives!’

     Peggy can’t help but grin at Angie’s enthusiasm. ‘You never know, dear. Your wish may very well come true.’

     ‘Oh, you must take me to all the sites in Scotland! I gotta climb at least _one_ of the mountains too.’ She releases Peggy’s sleeve, proceeding towards one of the windows. She points out at the view, ‘Like that one! Christ, English, I’d never miss the theatre at all with a place like this.’

     ‘I doubt that. You’ll gradually grow accustomed to it all, darling. I’d hate for you to be rid of your hobbies.’

     ‘As if that’s gonna happen. You should stop worryin’ over me, Pegs. You’ve done enough.’

     ‘There is still much more for me to do.’ 

     ‘But ya can stay a while, can’t you?’ Angie forgets about the view, now focussed entirely on Peggy. ‘You don’t have to run right back to the war again. Ya gotta have some time with me first.’

     ‘I will, I promise. A few days.’

     ‘Then you’ll come back?’

     ‘I don’t have any other plans, Angie.’ Peggy smiles warmly. ‘In fact, my only plan is to keep you safe.’

     Angie flushes. ‘You should know by now, English, that I can take a’myself.’

     ‘I know, but, even so, that doesn’t stop me from worrying.’

     ‘Hey, believe it or not, I worry about you too. Doesn’t mean I can keep you all to myself, though.’ She twitches a little smile; reluctant. ‘Just––I’m just one small person, Pegs; can’t have this whole place alone, y’know? I need you here with me.’ She inhales, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘Ain’t got a home without you.’

     ‘You’re sweet. The feeling is mutual, dear. I think that’s why I wanted to take you here; take you to England with me. Here, I know you’ll be all right.’ Peggy stops herself from speaking any further. She could babble on as to why she chose England, Scotland to be exact, but her purpose is pretty clear. 

     She comes over, an arm wrapping around Angie’s small waist. They embrace each other, and, for a moment, Peggy is absolutely certain everything will go as she wants it to. Finally, things seem to be looking up. Finally. She has Angie, and she’s managed to drag her away from her abusive father. And even though she’s scared Dmitri may or may not somehow discover where his daughter has fled to, at least she has the security in knowing that Angie will always be too far for him to reach.

     Perhaps Angie’s wish will happen. Perhaps, when the war is finished, when England _wins_ , victorious and powerful as it is, Peggy can return to Angie and that will be that. No more battles, no more wars. Just themselves and their small cottage, with only the mountains to keep them company. 

     It all sounds like a dream.

     Too perfect to be true.

     But she hangs onto that dream; if Peggy has to hang onto anything in order to keep going, it’s knowing Angie is waiting for her. That even though Steve is gone, she isn’t alone. She is still loved; still cared.

     The ring, originally given to Angie by her potential husband, is still in Peggy’s possession. Neither she or Angie have the intention to remove it until it is absolutely necessary to. Although the ring’s purpose was to indeed promise Angie to a man, it’s purpose has changed considerably.

     It is still a promise, but a promise to come home. 

     Remind Peggy that she _must_ come home.

     Angie dreads that, dreads when they’ll have to depart, but she refuses to delve into that right now. Peggy is here. She won’t waste a second mourning over the fact she won’t be here for much longer.

     Together, they unpack the small amount of belongings they have. It’s a surprisingly soothing manoeuvre. Angie is a creative soul, and chooses where most things should be placed. While her father was absent, she did manage to sneak back into her apartment and take a few things which belong to her. 

     The photograph of she and her late mother, which Peggy hasn’t seen in some time, catches Peggy’s eye and, without asking, she props the photograph on one of the mantelpieces in the living room.

     When Angie catches her doing that, she endures a rush of affection for the woman. Peggy, out of the blue, asks if Angie would like any tea to which she confirms. Angie pauses, and follows Peggy into the kitchen. She wraps her arms around her while Peggy fills the kettle, and Angie presses herself against Peggy’s back. 

     ‘You never talk to me about your parents.’

     Peggy stiffens. ‘I suppose not.’

     ‘Where are they?’

     ‘Deceased.’

     Angie feels her insides go cold. She squeezes Peggy. ‘I’m sorry.’

     ‘It happened a few years ago; they were killed in the London bombings. My sister, however, survived. I have yet to write to her that we are here.’ Peggy cocks a brow. ‘Angie, you should meet her.’

     There’s something about meeting Peggy’s sister which puts Angie slightly on edge. ‘How am I gonna introduce myself?’ She loosens her grip. ‘Pegs, I don’t think your sister’s gonna like it if I say we’re involved.’

     ‘And why not?’

     ‘Well…’ Angie is stumped.

     Peggy chuckles. ‘Oh, darling, you must calm down.’ She turns, and brushes the back of her hand across Angie’s cheek. ‘My sister doesn’t take much interest in the gender of my partners. She’s aware of my “scandals”, as she so puts them. Just be yourself around her; she’ll take to you warmly. _I_ did, after all.’

     ‘Yeah, but that’s different.’

     ‘Angie. I’d never introduce you to somebody who would mean any harm. Have a little faith in me, dear.’

     ‘I do! Peggy, I do!’ Angie grabs her hand, ‘I’ve just lived my whole life knowing that I’m damaged and can’t be fixed. I can’t really imagine anybody else thinkin’ otherwise; I ain’t exactly likeable in that regard, Pegs.’

     ‘It doesn’t matter if you like women or men, Angie. What matters is who _you_ are, as a person. I didn’t develop feelings for you because of which gender you felt more affectionate towards. I developed feelings for you because you are a generous, kind and beautiful young woman. That’s all that matters. To me, anyway.’

     Angie pulls at the lapels of Peggy’s jacket and kisses her. ‘You are the only thing that matters to me now,’ she mumbles, ‘I can’t lose you.’

     ‘You won’t.’ Peggy smiles faintly. ‘As long as I don’t lose you.’

     ‘Where would I go?’

     ‘I’m not sure. All I know is that I am fear of you leaving everyday. Maybe not purposefully. I don’t want you to be taken away from me.’

     ‘That’s not gonna happen again.’ Angie’s fingers delicately brush passed Peggy’s ring. ‘We promised, remember?’

     ‘I remember.’ Peggy’s downcasts her gaze, and sorts through her mind the things Angie has said. One sentence sticks out the most. ‘Please, don’t ever call yourself “damaged” or “broken” or anything like that again.’ Angie blinks, and narrows her brows. ‘It hurts, when you say such awful things about yourself. You are the very opposite of damaged.’

     ‘I’m sorry,’ Angie breathes, ‘It’s a hard habit to break.’

     ‘But you aren’t,’ Peggy insists, softening her voice. She inches closer, pressing her lips to Angie’s cheek. ‘You _are_ the opposite.’ She trails her lips to her jawline, breath hot and sweet against Angie’s skin. ‘Perfect.’ She kisses Angie there, lightly scattering several kisses down her neck. Angie’s eyes flutter closed, and she lets out a small moan. ‘I know damaged, darling. I have seen it. You are not that.’

     ‘Kiss me. Peggy.’

     Of course Peggy obliges. They kiss passionately, and even though they are more than well acquainted with each other, every time Peggy’s hands smooth down Angie’s back, up her arms, hands squeezing her shoulders, Angie is lost in her desire and love for this woman. 

     It is the sort of emotion, the sort of sensation, Angie will never get tired of. There are those nights when they do nothing but kiss each other for hours, and there is not a single second in which Angie takes it for granted. Even when they’re not touching, simply gazing at each other, or in each other’s company, Angie is the happiest girl alive, and she cannot believe her luck that somebody, _a wonder like Peggy_ , found her. How fortunate she is that Peggy walked into her life when she did.

     She could love this woman until her last breath.

     And she will.

     She knows that. Whatever happens, Angie will never stop loving Peggy, even if her love for this woman ensured her fate.

     Together, they finish unpacking, and when Howard’s cottage is their own, Peggy tells Angie the names of some of the mountains; how tall they are. What gorgeous places they should visit here in Scotland, where Angie should travel to when Peggy is absent. They don’t delve into the latter topic for very long, and Angie even interrupts Peggy’s explanation with multiple kisses.

     Peggy sees the telegram first, her name scribbled onto the paper, her alleged death announced in cold, blunt words.

     ‘You kept it,’ she says, surprised.

     Angie refuses to even look at the telegram. ‘I thought about throwing it away, but––I don’t wanna jinx anything, Pegs. I just want it gone; I don’t wanna see it unless I really have to.’

     ‘I understand.’ Peggy returns the telegram into its bag, ‘I’m sorry you ever received the damned thing.’

     ‘I don’t want another.’ The corner of her mouth twitches, and a split second of agony passes her expression. ‘I can’t let you die again. Otherwise I’d have to follow you there.’

     Peggy shudders. ‘If I died, I’d hope you would keep going.’

     ‘I think people like that do exist,’ Angie shakes her head, ‘But, I don’t think I’m one of ‘em.’ Tears sting her eyes, and she struggles to hold back a cry. ‘Pegs, I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.’

     ‘We don’t have to.’ Peggy widens her eyes, ‘Angie, I’m sorry.’ She retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes Angie’s tears away. The younger woman flinches slightly at her forwardness, and blinks up at her. Their gaze holds. Peggy tries to smile, but trying only makes it worse, and her voice wavers. ‘We don’t have to talk anymore.’ 

     Words have never done her any favours.

     Angie raises herself and they’re kissing again, but this time with no intention to stop. They kiss and hold each other, trapped in a fierce embrace neither wish to break. Angie is confident and warm in her approach. Her fingers rake through Peggy’s hair, allowing a few bobby pins to clatter to the floorboard. She exhales, arching her back at Peggy’s lips on her neck, hands undoing the buttons to her cardigan.

     They find each other, move into each other, kiss until their lips are sore. 

     Hidden away in their small cottage, they both consummate what they have together. They consummate their love three times before reaching the bed, and it’s gentle, tempered, and soft. 

     Everything is how they’ve always wanted it to be, and this fulfilment, this home they’ve offered one another, is plenty.

 


	2. 02

_A monster opens the door, tall and swaying. The bottle of alcohol is loose in his grip, half empty––not his first this evening. When he steps inside, he closes the door so viciously, the hinges almost snap. Tonight, he is upset. Not angry, not irritated. He’s upset and he wants to cry and blame somebody. He doesn’t like being upset._

_It’s the sound of his boots._

_Pounding._

_When he calls out her name, it’s a rumbling echo. She is already running away. The back door. Through the hedges. Onto the road. That is her escape plan._

_She reaches for the door._

_But he hears her; he hears her running. And he scolds her. He screams at her, looming over her small figure, and tries to grab for her collar. He succeeds. She cries out. He pulls, yanking his daughter back, but he does this so roughly, her collar rips._

_It’s this opportunity she takes––she flees from his wrath._

_The bottle drops._

_Glass explodes across the floor._

_This time, when he catches her, he’s too strong. He nearly chokes her. He has never held her this way, so aggressively, so fiercely––as if he wants to kill her. And maybe he will this time. Yes, maybe he will kill her; strangle her to death. She doesn’t know; she can barely see him. All she sees is a dark shadow, lost in the light._

_He pushes her up against the wall, says something she doesn’t understand._

_Maybe he will unbuckle his belt. Whip her until she bleeds._

_Maybe he will simply yell. Force her to curl into a ball in the corner._

_Maybe he will slap her. Slap her until he’s left a bruise._

_When her Papa comes forward, she expects to see his face; angry and tired. She expects to see his eyes, wide with pain. She expects everything she has always seen, every night. She expects to see Daddy, glaring at her, hating her––_

_The face mutates; distorts._

_‘How could you leave me?’ The voice weeps, ‘I was all you had, and you left me.’_

_It’s Daddy, his tone, his voice, his tears. And he will punish her. Suddenly, she’s terrified. Suddenly, she knows she’s not going to die. Suddenly, she knows he won’t hurt her, and that terrifies her. She’s horrified and she tries to scream, tries to call for help; he won’t punish her and that’s not right._

_Then the distorted face clears and Peggy Carter looks at her as if she's nothing but an animal. An animal to prey on. A soft, yet strong hand fits perfectly around Angie’s neck, and she chokes, lifted off her feet and pressed into the wall._

_When Peggy Carter speaks, her voice is tangled with another Angie knows all too well._

_‘I don’t want to be left alone.’_

_Angie sees the dog tags dangling around Peggy’s neck, and the crucifix, hanging in between; a scarlet colour, coated in red––_

_––the stench of blood––_

 

 

 

 

 

‘… wake up. Sweetheart, wake up, wake up!’

Angie exclaims, and flails her fists, desperately reaching out to grab something. She can see it, she can see him, can see _her_ , their faces, so horrifying and demented and she can’t breathe; she’s still being strangled and––

‘Darling, stop!’ 

Someone grabs Angie’s hand and yanks her body forwards. Before Angie can react, defend herself from the blow, she hits something soft.

Then she hears her. ‘Shh, shh, that’s better.’ 

Peggy.

For a moment, Angie is stiff, frozen. She listens, listens to Peggy’s whispers, her heartbeat. The gentle rise and fall of her chest while she breathes; hand running through Angie’s hair affectionately. Soothing. Angie inhales, widens her eyes, and then it all makes sense. She stirs, and Peggy tightens her hold.

‘Are you there?’ Angie asks, voice tight, ‘Peggy?’

‘It’s okay; I’m here. I’m here.’ Two warm hands cup either side of Angie’s face, and Angie looks up. Peggy. Yes, this is definitely Peggy and she’s not looking at her like before. Her face isn’t dark or distorted or anything like that. Her face is concerned, warm, as it’s always been. Angie swallows, blinks, and hesitates.

A dream.

It felt real. _It was real_.

Except it wasn’t; that wasn’t real. That was not real. The Peggy in her dream was not real. Peggy would never hurt her, would never strangle her; would never say the things the woman in her dream said.

‘Oh.’

Angie gasps and presses her body against Peggy’s, wrapping her arms around her neck. She clings onto Peggy desperately, scrunching her eyes shut, focussing entirely on Peggy’s hand lightly stroking up her back. How she fits perfectly against her; how they match; how everything between them is in sync and perfect.

She focusses on Peggy. Only Peggy. 

‘I’m sorry!’ Angie finds her voice, but it comes out in a frantic wail, ‘Peggy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m so sorry––’

‘Angie, that’s enough, shh.’ Peggy squeezes her affectionately. ‘It’s okay, darling. It was a dream. That’s all it was; just a dream.’

‘I ain’t had dreams like that before,’ Angie croaks, tears clouding her vision.

‘I know,’ Peggy replies gently. ‘I’ve got you, all right?’

‘Don’t let go of me.’

‘I shan't.’

Angie buries her face into the crook of Peggy’s neck, and they remain locked in their embrace for what could have been hours. As the minutes tick by, Peggy can feel Angie relax; her muscles loosening, her breathing coming back to its original pace. She doesn’t stop holding her, she won’t stop holding her until Angie wants her to stop.

Never does Angie wish that, though.

Peggy kisses her cheek. She brings her hands down to Angie’s hips, and pulls Angie onto her lap. Resting her back against the headboard, Peggy encourages Angie to look at her. She smiles, brushing the back of her hand over Angie’s cheek. ‘There there, dear. I told you everything is going to be all right.’

Taking Peggy’s hand in-between her own, Angie is quiet for a while. 

She unscrambles the dream in her mind. Each second. Her father’s appearance, how strong and scary he was; and then Peggy. How betrayed and upset she looked. How her hand was around her neck, wanting to kill her––

‘Darling, will you tell me what happened?’

‘It was just––’ Angie meets Peggy’s gaze, ‘––just a dumb dream, that’s all.’

‘Dumb or not, it clearly had an effect on you.’

‘I don’t wanna talk about it. It isn’t important.’

Peggy doesn’t look convinced, and Angie can’t handle seeing her this way. She presses her mouth onto hers, and that feels better. That feels nice. She likes Peggy’s lips on hers, she likes Peggy’s hands on her waist. She likes Peggy close, likes her taste, her smell, her voice, and she drowns in every element that she is.

‘I’m safest with you,’ Angie breathes against Peggy’s lips, ‘You gotta promise not to let me go.’

‘I am not going to let you go,’ Peggy replies. She kisses her, ‘I promise.’ She kisses her again. ‘I’m not letting you go.’ Angie grabs her and they fall into a series of rough, passionate kisses. And she’s better, she’s okay.

She’ll be okay.

 

 

 

 

 

There isn’t a dream. 

Just an empty void of nothingness; white hope. A vision of empty solace. 

Angie wakes up, and she’s alone. Peggy’s side of the bed is vacant, but tidy. She rubs her eyes, and slowly sits upright, the sheets fluttering down to her hips. Angie squints. The curtains are open and sunshine rays in through the window. It feels warm on her naked skin, and from where she sits, she can see the side of a mountain; one she can’t remember the name of.

The view transfixes her. Until she comes back to where she sits on the bed. Peggy must be downstairs. Why not wake her, though? Angie brushes the matter off and slips out of the sheets. She pulls on her gown, and leaves the bedroom with a yawn and stretch. Her hair is a mess, as usual in the mornings. She lazily wipes away a strain of dribble at the corner of her mouth. Angie rubs her left eye and descends the stairs.

As she makes a turn, reaching the ground floor, she sees the kitchen.

The door is wide open.

And there’s a woman in the kitchen: a lean figure, long, gorgeous blonde hair trailing down to her waist. She’s dressed entirely in black, a pencil skirt, and sharp, high heels. Angie stops. That is not Peggy. 

Angie frowns.

The woman hasn’t noticed her. Apparently. Her back is turned to Angie, and she’s admiring one of the photographs Angie put up last night. It is a photograph of Peggy’s parents. Angie feels her blood boil, and she realises who this stranger is. 

Dorothy Underwood has clearly arrived uninvited.

It doesn’t make any rational sense, but Angie goes straight for the lamp. She unhooks it, and raises it properly with the intention to hit Dottie across the head. The last time she was ever violent was in the hospital, when she and Howard tried to rescue Howard. A flash of the memory passes her vision, and her heart accelerates. 

Angie steps into the kitchen, holds her breath and sends the lamp down onto Dottie’s head.

It happens far too fast.

Dottie, somehow, spins around before Angie attacks. And then the lamp is in Dottie’s grip, yanked out of Angie’s hand, and suddenly Angie is defenceless and vulnerable and Dottie grins at her, amused and disturbed.

‘I was wondering when you would appear.’

Angie widens her eyes in horror and steps back.

‘Put that down immediately.’

Angie tenses. Peggy. She peers behind her shoulder, and watches Peggy enter the kitchen, fully dressed. Peggy’s eyes fall onto her, and she comes over. Angie is gently ushered back when Peggy grabs her gown. 

Dottie’s grin doesn’t fade. ‘Your ladylove started it, Agent Carter.’

‘I won’t tell you again.’

Dottie shrugs and places the lamp down. She holds up the photograph. ‘You look just like your mother, Peggy. Pretty.’

‘I have the information you requested.’

At that, Dottie’s expression hardens. The photograph flutters to the table. ‘Give it to me.’

‘Not so fast,’ Peggy replies, ‘I told you _never_ to come near my family again, and you disobeyed my orders.’

‘Oh, calm down, Pegs. I only wanted to see the splendour you and Angie live in now. For the record––’ Dottie sneers, ‘––I don’t take orders from _you_.’

‘If you knew better, you _would_.’

‘Hm.’ Dottie twitches a smile, and her eyes land on Angie. She inhales, greedily studying Angie’s figure beneath her gown. Angie wraps her arms around herself, and almost feels violated at the way Dottie watches her. ‘I’m travelling to meet the infamous Mister Stark tomorrow. You said you were keen to follow me wherever I go,’ Dottie looks back at Peggy, ‘However, if you’re unavailable…’

‘Absolutely not. After what you pulled at the Japanese camp, I’m keeping a close eye on you.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

Angie recalls the conversation she had with Howard and Peggy, regarding Dottie’s true identity. About the woman she met at her audition, with the dark, red hair. How she spoke to her, how strong her Russian accent had been––

––those large, innocent blue eyes.

It had to be her.

Dottie had to have been the person she met all of those months ago. 

‘Whereabouts from Russia are you from?’

Dottie snaps her gaze to Angie. She has hit a sensitive spot, and Angie can’t help but feel a little proud about that. She can’t stand Dottie Underwood; anything to get her back for how she treated Peggy. 

‘I do not follow,’ Dottie replies, voice crisp.

‘Yeah, you do,’ Angie snorts, ‘You ain’t that subtle, Iowa.’

Dottie smirks. ‘Told her a few of my secrets, Peggy?’ Angie buckles down a little when Peggy nervously pulls at her sleeve. Dottie jars her teeth. ‘Why don’t you just ask me what you _really_ want to ask?’

‘I met a girl at an audition couple a’months back. I’m guessing nearly a year even. Does Yelena Bolova ring any bells? She was real sweet, but funny thing is, she didn’t audition. Just hung about talking to me, and then left.’

‘Ah, who’s _really_ the spy here?’

‘I don’t need no special qualifications in order to see the obvious.’

Dottie grins. ‘I like you, Angie. I can see why Peggy is so fond of you.’

‘Answer the question,’ Peggy’s anger has spiked, and it’s such a rare sight. Peggy is rarely angry, but when she is, it’s as if a volcano is about to erupt. Peggy’s rage is like lava, soaking her target in her flame and scorching heat. Peggy doesn’t snap, but her anger comes out in gradual bites. 

Now that Angie has involved herself, Peggy has little patience and, admittedly, Angie is on edge at what Peggy might do.

But she remains put, clinging to Angie’s gown.

Dottie nods. ‘That’s right. That is the name I was gifted.’

‘Gifted?’ Angie cocks a brow, ‘You’re an orphan?’

‘One of twenty-seven.’ Dottie pauses. All of her charm and sophisticated manner has evaporated completely and the way she watches Angie sends a chill up her spine. ‘Orphaned girls, like I, were trained to become who we are today. I could take you to a school if you wish.’ Now, she’s looking at Peggy. A smile tugs at her lips, but it’s a sad, unforgivable smile. ‘And then you can see the true face of horror.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Peggy cuts through, voice as sharp as ice.

‘Why not?’ Dottie shrugs carelessly. ‘You could ask the other twenty-six, but they’re like me: slippery; we can give ourselves any identity we wish. You never know. You could be looking at a loved one, oblivious that they are wearing a mask. You ought to be careful, Agent Carter. People are hunting you down.’

‘And that’s news to me because?’

‘Your confidence only proves how insecure you are. It’s a shame, really. You’re not as frightening as they say.’

‘They?’ Peggy cocks a brow. ‘Who’s “they”, pray tell?’

‘Oh,’ Dottie teases. ‘A few _old friends_.’

Angie has no idea what Dottie is implying, but when she looks at Peggy, she realises she’s the only one. Peggy’s expression has softened into what could be fear. However it is hard to tell. Peggy can be difficult to read, especially during intense discussions such as these. Clearly Dottie has said something Peggy has been dreading to hear.

Dottie sighs happily. Content.

‘Meet me, Peggy. Tomorrow. 1700. Don’t be late. Just walk a couple of miles South from here. I’ll stay out of your way until then. If you and Howard agree in assisting me, I’ll make it worth your while. I ask for very little.’

Then Dottie turns her head to the mantlepiece. Angie watches her study a small black-and-white photograph. Faded.

The photograph of Angie’s brother.

‘So. Will you?’ Dottie looks at Peggy, almost adoringly. 

‘I will,’ Peggy says.

‘Wonderful.’ Dottie steps past the couple, lightly brushing her hand across Angie’s arm. Angie flinches and backs into Peggy. ‘What a lovely abode! How awful it would be if this delightful cottage came to ruin.’

She flashes a smirk, directly at Angie, and leaves the cottage, waving behind her.

‘Farewell.’

Peggy’s hands slip from Angie. She follows Dottie towards the door, heels hitting the floorboard. Dottie walks out, elegant and free, and then she’s gone. Peggy locks the door, returns to Angie, pale and still a little angry.

‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’

Peggy nods. ‘I don’t intend to be gone long.’

Angie’s lower lip quivers, but she doesn’t cry. She should have expected this to happen sooner rather than later. ‘Okay.’ She swallows, and comes forward. They embrace, and she can feel how tense Peggy is. What Dottie can do to her. ‘I love you.’

‘And I you.’

Peggy looks at where the photograph of Angie’s brother had been.

That, too, has disappeared. 

 


End file.
